


What's In Your Backpack?

by Cheylock



Series: The Becky Prompts [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bullying, M/M, Paranoia, Pre-Slash, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheylock/pseuds/Cheylock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isaac doesn't like other people touching his things.<br/>Not even a fucking little bit.<br/>So when he smells Stilinski's hands all over his textbooks, well.<br/>He's not exactly happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's In Your Backpack?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [therudestflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/therudestflower/gifts).



> Congrats on the first half-page of your essay, lady! Uh...this sort of got away from me.
> 
> Prompt: Isaac and Stiles look in each other's backpacks.
> 
> I'd like to point out that Isaac makes a fuckton of assumptions in this and they are _not_ all correct. He is paranoid and quick to blame himself. I'd just like to make that clear.

Stiles's back bangs against the wall with a very distinctive and gratifying 'smack' sound. Isaac's mouth is quirked up in a mean little smile. "Getting nosey now, are we? Well, _more_ nosey."

Isaac has the other boy pinned by the shoulders, and he draws in a breath and lets his eyes shift _up_ , into that golden hue that glows out and turns his whole sight the most intense and gratifying red. Stiles's lips are pinched shut and he doesn't make a noise, just glares. Isaac doesn't like that.

He doesn't like it when people are quiet when they shouldn't be.

"What the fuck is your problem, Lahey?" Stiles bites it out at him, snaps really, and Isaac barely keeps himself from snarling. He leans forward, crowds into Stiles's personal space, holds his mouth a mere centimeter from Stiles's ear.

"What were you looking for in my bag?" Whatever it was, Stiles hadn't found it. There hadn't been anything missing. He'd checked. A few times, actually.

Stiles doesn't flinch away from him, just holds stock-still and looks like he's imagining he's somewhere else. Isaac doesn't like that, either. He's starting to feel uncomfortable touching, being touched. It happens sometimes. He resolutely ignores it, as usual. Stiles hasn't responded.

Isaac likes that even less.

The bell rings and Stiles squirms against him just barely, seems to remember or remind himself that struggling against Isaac is _entirely_ futile, and then drops his gaze.

That, Isaac can deal with.

"Put those things out before somebody notices."

Being told what to do, not so much. That can be _irritating_.This time, a bubbling little snarl _does_ make its way out of his throat, but to his surprise Stiles just tilts his head back up and rolls his eyes. Which is somehow less frustrating than his weirdly submissive behavior.

"'S for your own good, fuzzy butt. There are security cameras, remember?"

Actually, no, Isaac hadn't. Fuck. He douses his eyes and blinks a few times, readjusting to a world full of color.

"Great. Now that that's taken care of, will you let me down?"

Isaac eyes Stiles with his mouth still pursed tight, cocking his head to the side a little, not sure what he means until he realizes that Stiles is _eye-level_. Oops. He eases the shorter boy down and then backs away and crosses his arms, letting his face fall the way it wants to: pouty, pissed off, a little scared.

"Okay, you're down. Now what were you doing in my _stuff_." Motherfucker, he goes to the bathroom _one goddamn time_.

Stiles scrunches his eyes shut and flops his own body against the wall with a groan. "Fuck, dude, can you leave it alone? I don't--I didn't take anything. I didn't read anything. I was being your standard spazziod idiot or dork or asshole, whatever the fuck guys like you call guys like me, now beat the shit out of me, get it out of your system, and move the fuck on." He lets his head drop back against the wall with a dull thwack, shoulders curling inward and _bracing for it_ and Isaac's stomach turns over.

 

He bolts from the hallway and winds up hunched over one of the rancid school toilets with no memory of getting there, horking up his lunch. No one comes after him, and if anyone smells vomit on his breath, they don't say anything.

He's only ever hit, fucked with, 'beaten the shit' out of people who'd obviously never been forced to take a hit in the entirely of their somehow-secretly-miserable lives, not counting hunters.

He's never fucked with someone who looked like they knew how it _felt_ already.

 

So Isaac may or may not've skipped lacrosse practice to lay in wait for Stiles's dad.

He's jittery, almost like before he was turned, he can't stop tapping his pencil against the table--he has his French II homework out, so he can at least be productive while he waits for his chance to commit murder.

Somehow he feels like he should be more concerned than he is (which is pretty fucking concerned, the fact that he's nearly hyperventilating should prove it), but a cloak of cold has settled over his shoulders, and he's not _worried_. A few simple questions--do you hurt Stiles, do you like it, does it make you fucking _feel good you sick piece of shit_ , and if he hears a single skipping beat indicating a lie then blood goes all over the nice sunny kitchen and Stiles hurts really really bad for a while because being an orphan is kind of bullshit--not everybody gets to be Batman--but eventually he starts dealing with the fact that his dad _was_ a piece of shit and is dead and won't do that shit to him anymore, so it's better at the same time.

Sort of.

He hears a car and the distinctive little rumble-and-squeak he's long learned to listen for means that _Stiles got home first what the fuck_. He isn't expecting that. This isn't how it's supposed to go.

He snatches up his stuff and dumps it into his backpack, zips it, and crams himself into the corner beside the door, aware that if Stiles just looked to his right when he walked in the door he'd be able to see Isaac standing frozen there--

Stiles opens the door and walks right by him, closes the door, locks it behind him, goes to the fridge, and then opens it. He bends, comes back up with a jug of milk, opens the top, and drinks straight out of it.

Well, that tells Isaac all he needs to know, really. He was never that relaxed at home, even when his dad wasn't there. Even if he _knew_ it wouldn't come for hours, he was listening for the car. Stiles is just standing there with the fridge open. Isaac couldn't ever let himself do that.

He knows that it might be different for Stiles, that Stiles might be stronger than he was (or is--he _still_ can't leave the fridge open), but this is enough to make him relax just slightly and realize that he was literally just planning to gut the _Sheriff_ of Beacon Hills. _Yes, great plan, Lahey. No way that could backfire._

Stiles looks completely relaxed, all the tension normally winding him up sort of rumples out of him and it confuses Isaac for a moment, because _has he always looked that tired? It looks like he's barely holding himself up_.

Then Stiles puts the milk back and closes the fridge and Isaac doesn't have anywhere to go but forward but _Stiles_ is forward and then Stiles looks over and sees him.

All that tenseness comes back immediately and his face hasn't changed but to _set_ and Isaac doesn't know how but Stiles has made the tired drain away, holy shit it's suddenly invisible.

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?"

Isaac's first instinct is to flinch away and just run out, but he's not that _person_ anymore goddamn it, he's not even _a_ person, he doesn't run--he fights. He stands and he plants his goddamn feet and he _fights_.

"I don't understand the Physics homework."

 _Whoa_ , what the fuck, that is not at all fighting. What the hell?

Stiles eyes him for a long, long moment, and some of the tiredness creeps slowly back into his face. He looks away from Isaac, and Isaac is weirdly grateful. Being scrutinized like that always makes his bladder tighten up.

Stiles mumbles "are you _fucking_ kidding me?" under his breath, but Isaac is polite enough not to respond to that, that wasn't directed towards him. Then Stiles's face swings back to his own and Stiles meets his eyes with those angry amber stones. "I don't know what the fuck your game is, but you're not knocking me around and you're not threatening me. If you continue to be semi-polite and you don't touch me, I will help you with your Physics homework."

"I--I--" Isaac is having some serious trouble breathing. Holy fuck, Stiles _is_ used to it, oh god, god _god_ what the fuck--

Stiles is used to it because of him.

"Bathroom?" His voice is a wheezing whisper, and Stiles looks immediately concerned instead of cold and Isaac doesn't know what the hell is _wrong_ with him, with either fucking one of them, but then he's puking in the kitchen sink because Stiles wasn't fast enough and Stiles is patting his back tentatively.

"Shit, dude, shit, oh fuck that's nasty, come on, get it out."

Isaac is crying, because he always cries when he pukes, and he's trying really fucking hard not to let it turn into _real_ crying. He hasn't been sick twice in the same day since Cam died, and some of it comes out of his nose and it's probably his lowest moment since becoming a werewolf, vomiting his lungs out in the Stilinski kitchen sink. The minute he's done, his legs noodle out on him, and he leans heavily against the counter and just trembles and shakes.

"Dude, dude, it's fine, you puked in the side with the garbage disposal, it's fine, it's whatever, don't cry--are you sick? Don't--just--don't--don't fucking cry, please stop, Isaac, please stop crying."

That's what does it, that half-desperate pleading, that's what gets him, and he cracks and starts crying for real, which is exactly the same as his pain crying except that his chest starts to tighten up, too. Then the water's running in the sink and a metallic whirring clicks on, like a combination washing machine/car, and he's pretty sure Stiles just flicked on the garbage disposal but he's looking at his own hands clutching the living shit out of the formica of the counter the sink is submerged in and he _could_ crush it he _could_ rip it to pieces and that helps ground him enough to realize that stinging mucus is dripping out of his nose, and he starts to unclench a trembling hand to wipe his nose but then a paper towel's pressed over the back of his hand.

He wants to ask Stiles why the _fuck_ he's being so nice but he can't exactly speak yet so he just wipes at his eyes and then blows his nose (and it's chunky, which a thing that his mucus is never allowed to be again because he almost vomited more just from _that_ ).

After he takes care of the mess on his face, Stiles hands him a glass full of water. Isaac wasn't paying attention to when he got it or where it'd come from, and it probably could've been a cup of pure-grade kanima venom without him even noticing at this point, he's so goddamn _thirsty_ , and his poor raw throat is berating him right about now.

He drinks it slowly even though his body's screaming for him to throw it back like a shot, and he feels his throat healing, which is still probably the best sensation he's ever felt in his life. Then the garbage disposal goes off and he moves away from the sink so Stiles can douse it with Dawn and scrub it with a sponge he then promptly throws away.

Isaac swallows hard. "I'm sorry."

"Not the first time I've had to clean puke out of the sink. Like I said, garbage disposal side, it's whatever. So _why'd_ you puke in my sink exactly?"

 

He makes something up about bad eggs and Stiles actually fucking believes him, or doesn't and pretends to--Isaac doesn't trust what Stiles's face says anymore, not after seeing him unaware like that. Then they sit down at Stiles's kitchen table and start doing Physics homework.

Questions about the work are the only questions that don't make Stiles glare suspiciously at him, so he asks a lot of them. All of them that come into his head. Which is pretty cool, he never does that, too afraid of being called an idiot like Harris so often calls Stiles, but he'd rather be called an idiot than think about what a horrible fucking person he is. As a result, he actually feels like he's understanding the material, and Stiles is a really good teacher--but Isaac is quick, so Stiles doesn't really have the opportunity to demonstrate anything approximating patience. Isaac's leaning back into jittery when, at seven and after they've worked _ahead_ in the book so Isaac can actually be prepared for class for once, Stiles gets up and goes to the freezer.

"Ham and cheese or pizza?"

Isaac's eyebrows draw together, and he forgets to not ask questions. "What?"

Apparently that one's fine. "Hot pockets. We have two kinds--ham and cheese and four-cheese pizza. So which?"

"Whichever one you don't want." He doesn't _have_ to do that anymore, he's allowed to just say what he wants now because no one, _no one_ can tell him he can't have it, but that...that still feels impossible. Like it's a _wrong_ thing to do, to just say out loud like that.

Stiles nods at him a little, reaches into the freezer, and then freezes, blinking. He looks back at Isaac, then at the freezer, then at Isaac again, like he can't get a grip on the image he's seeing. Isaac has no fucking idea what's going on until he seriously thinks about it and examines himself. Then, yeah, it's pretty clear.

He's gone out of his new normal position--swagged against his chair with his arm over the back of it and his legs open on either side of it, an elbow on the table and an eyebrow in the air--and is now sitting how he _used_ to sit, how he only sits when he's alone now.

He's slouched in a distinctly 'trying to be smaller' way, elbows on his knees so he doesn't put them on the table, and whenever he's not talking his mouth settles over his hands like he's hiding his mouth, which he kind of is. His face feels serious and his legs are together, feet pointed out, so it's easy to get up.

He slowly sits up, absurdly hearing "T-rex vision is based on movement. If you stand perfectly still, he won't be able to see you," echoing in his head. Fucking _Jurassic Park_.

Stiles's head turns even _more_ slowly back to the open freezer, and then he pulls out two cardboard boxes. "One of each?"

Isaac nods.

 

Then it's eight forty and if he doesn't get out soon his chest is gonna burst. He's so fucking _anxious_ and he keeps listening for a car--

"Look, I should get out of here."

Stiles looks up and he actually--the fuck? Was that _disappointment_ there for a second?

"Yeah, dude, do whatever you want. You didn't ask to come in, I don't think you need to ask to leave." He doesn't sound angry exactly, just...resigned.

Isaac runs a hand through his hair on the side, watches Stiles follow the moment with his eyes. It confuses him a little. Enough that he doesn't give himself time to think about what he's about to say. "Yeah, sorry. About just--just busting in like that. I lied. About the eggs. I uh--I'm sorry I scare you."

Stiles blinks slowly and obviously, and then pretends to clear out his ear with his pinkie. "Sorry, come again? Isaac was abducted by aliens and you are his much nicer doppelgänger? Cool, man. What planet are you from?"

Isaac answers _that_ without thinking, too. "K-Pax."

Stiles grins and then somehow this spins into a Sci-Fi movie discussion which lasts all of thirty minutes before Isaac remembers what time it was when he last looked and he jumps.

Stiles looks all around the room, nearly flailing, and _damn_ , he'd been almost smiling. "What the fuck dude? We under attack? Quick-- _what_?"

Isaac's hands don't know what the fuck to do with themselves so he sits on them. Old trick. "No, I just--It's late. I should _really_ go. Before--before your dad gets home." _Who I was going to kill, by the way. Did I mention that already_?

"Dude, what? No. My dad's not gonna be home until seven AM tomorrow, you're fine. I mean, _I_ want you out of here before midnight, but that's only 'cause of the History test."

Isaac nods, suddenly a lot more comfortable. "Oh. Does...does it bother you that he's out so late?"

Stiles opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and then speaks quietly. "Yeah. A lot. I dunno if he's coming back for sure."

Isaac is incredibly, massively startled. He'd never expect Stiles to say something like that to _him_. But only a little of that shows on his face. He nods.

Then Stiles studies History and Isaac studies French II, and they talk.

 

Stiles finds out that Isaac doesn't like Spider-man, and spends twenty minutes detailing how fucking pro Peter Parker is and muttering about the fact that there is not and will never be any concrete reason to hate him.

Isaac just shrugs. He can't explain that he has fucking idiotic reasons. It's just not a thing he sees himself talking about ever.

 

At maybe ten he gets his chance, when Stiles goes to the bathroom. He smiles, just barely, and tugs Stiles's backpack onto the chair beside him, the one Stiles himself just vacated. He looks through it quickly and only finds three things of interest: a small leather-bound book that is definitely not anything other than a journal (which he doesn't look at, fuck that, Stiles said he hadn't and Isaac wasn't doing that shit to _anybody)_ , a stick of Mint Mojito gum that he sticks into his own pocket for later, and a small butterfly keychain that looks too delicate to be something Stiles would like. He just stares at it for a little while, and he hears Stiles coming back downstairs, but he doesn't put it back or try to pretend like he wasn't looking.

"So you got your revenge, huh? Feel better?" Stiles moves his bag back down to the floor, and then he catches sight of the glittering false insect in Isaac's hand.

Isaac watches him look at it, and Stiles's face is trying to be ten things at once, soft and hard and scared and brave and Isaac knows.

"Your mom's?"

This'd been his dad's face when they found a box of Cam's old clothes in the attic two summers ago.

Stiles nods and holds out his hand for it. Isaac could hold his hand away and drop the delicate little thing into Stiles's palm, but instead he places it almost reverently in Stiles's fingers, that relic of a time when the person Stiles loved was _here_ and could hold him as tightly as Stiles is holding onto their memory.

"Which pocket was it in?"

Isaac lets his fingers linger on Stiles's for way longer than necessary, and then he runs them over the zipper of the pocket that's supposedly for an mp3 player that he's never seen _anyone_ use for that right at the top of the bag. Stiles nods and replaces it there.

They sit in silence for several minutes, and then he tries another question.

"So um...why _were_ you looking in my backpack?"

Stiles looked up into his face, eyes wide and vunerable. "Honestly?"

Isaac tilts his head to the side, trying to be disarming, to be reassuring. "No, Stiles, I want you to fucking lie to me." _Yeah, fucking awesome, be a sarcastic dickhead instead, no, no, that's fine, he's sure to respond well to that._

Stiles actually snorts and smiles and laughs, and then it just keeps building and it's starting to sound hysterical to Isaac and he's too paralyzed to get infected, he's just sitting there watching Stiles laugh his ass off, knowing he's not getting the joke, wondering if there _is_ a joke, if he needs to fucking _call_ someone--

" _Hair care products_ \--" Stiles absolutely _chokes_ it out and then falls against the table, nearly screaming with his laughter.

Isaac's laugh starts out as a little giggle-- _fucking really Stiles what the fucking fuck_ \--and then wham, he's doing that silent laughter where all he can do is shake and gasp and make clicking noises and shake his head, trying not to cry and failing because _Stiles was looking for hairspray or some shit_ what the hell Stiles was the weirdest fucking person.

 

After god knows how long the laughter fades down, and it doesn't automatically fix everything between them, doesn't make everything better, doesn't make them best fucking friends or soul mates or some shit, but...but it does matter.

And it sure as shit doesn't hurt anything, damn.


End file.
